He went back to work on the faucet. “Okay. If you want me to talk, I’ll talk. Here’s three little words for you: Go. To. Hell.”
CHAPTER 7
As Mitch eased his Studey across the rickety wooden causeway toward home, he was grateful for his island sanctuary. He needed some time alone to reflect. That nice, simple little get-together at Beth’s had gotten complicated in a hurry. It was so great to see Kenny again. He seemed like a terrific guy. Mitch was thrilled that his old friend and Kimberly were so madly in love. But then along came Hal, who it turned out had deep feelings for Kimberly and a world-class temper. Mitch was worried about a round two between Hal and Kenny. He was worried about Augie Donatelli’s obvious and highly unwelcome interest in Beth. The ex-cop was so hot for Mitch’s first love that he’d actually followed her to the Mohegan Sun, for crissakes. Mitch was also worried about the way Augie seemed to be getting under Des’s skin. She’d had words with him in Beth’s kitchen. And wouldn’t tell Mitch a thing about what they had talked about. She’d been unusually tight-lipped. It baffled him. Kimberly’s strange, remote father baffled him. So did her nervous, clingy mother. Hell, they all baffled him. His old life, the one he’d spent in darkened movie houses soaking up the world according to Louis B. Mayer, Sam Goldwyn and the brothers Warner had been so much easier to figure out. Everything was in black and white—even when it was filmed in Technicolor. Out here in Dorset, there were so many different shades of gray that it made his head spin like a gerbil wheel.
An old yellow MGA ragtop was parked at Bitsy’s house. She had company tonight. Mitch could hear the loud, thumping rock music. Although, oddly enough, the music grew louder as he pulled up in front of his own place. Loud enough for him to recognize it as “Trouble No More” off of the Allman Brothers’ landmark Eat a Peach.
The music was coming from his place.
As Mitch climbed out of his truck both Quirt and Clemmie came running up to him, yowling. Clemmie, who seldom went outside, seemed genuinely outraged. Wet clothes were draped over his lawn chairs, Mitch noticed. A pair of jeans, a T-shirt. Mitch didn’t remember leaving them there. He hadn’t. They weren’t his.
He pushed open the cottage’s front door, his heart racing, kick-ass music blasting—and discovered a naked stranger standing in the middle of his living room doing a low-down, hip-swinging boogie to the beat. In one hand he clutched a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in the other a bottle of Corona.
Mitch flicked off the music first thing. Didn’t matter. His bare-assed intruder didn’t stop dancing. Just boogied on for another four, five, six seconds before it dawned upon him that the music had stopped. And swiveled around on one bare heel, gaping at Mitch in surprise.
“Can I help you?” Mitch demanded.
After a long, really long, moment of silence the intruder responded, “Other way around. Bitsy said you wanted my advice.”
“I do?”
Apparently, there was not a reliable high-speed hook up between this guy’s mouth and brain. After another incredibly long gap in time he said, “You’re Mitch, aren’t you? Or am I . . . Uh-oh, do I have the wrong house?”
“No, you came to the right place.” Mitch studied him more closely. He was slope shouldered and sun-browned, well put together but going to flab, with high, hard cheekbones, uncombed blond hair and zonked-out blue eyes. About forty maybe. If Matthew McConaughey had a brother who’d inhaled way too many paint fumes, he would look just about like Mitch’s naked stranger. “You’re J. Z. Cliffe, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they keep telling me. Bitsy buzzed me out. Figured I’d just wait for you. Got hot so I took a swim. Got wet so I dried off. Then I got hungry.” J. Z. remembered the sandwich in his hand and took a bite. “Then I got thirsty.” He gulped down some beer. “Now we’re all good. Glad to know you.”
Mitch grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts from his wardrobe cupboard and tossed them to J. Z. “Why don’t you put these on? Make yourself at home. What am I saying, you already have. Would you like to write my next column for me? How are you on the subject of icebox questions?”
J. Z.’s face got all scrunched up. “How am I on . . . hunh?”
“Never mind.”
“Hey, sorry if I stepped on your turf, man. You can come over and help yourself to my stuff any time. What’s mine is yours. I’m real casual about possessions.” He stepped into the boxer shorts and pulled the T-shirt on over his head, then sauntered his way slowly around Mitch’s exposed-chestnut post-and-beam living room, peering at the walls and ceiling. He moved with a rear-slung, rubber legged gait that reminded Mitch of R. Crumb’s Mr. Natural. “Not that I’m trying to talk myself out of a gig or anything but your place looks pretty decent to me. I eyeballed the outside before you got here. You’ve got some minor blistering of your trim on the west side of the house. But you can go another year, easy. Unless what you’re thinking is you want to redo the color in here because of aesthetic or spiritual reasons. Which I can totally get behind.”
“Thanks for the info.” Mitch fetched himself a beer from the refrigerator. “But Bitsy and I were talking about you in connection with another subject.”
J. Z. frowned at him. “I paint houses, man. What else could I . . . ?”
“Kimberly Farrell.”
“Kimmy?” He squinted at Mitch with one eye shut, which was either his way of trying to act inscrutable or he needed glasses. “What about her?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“So this isn’t a professional get-with?”
“No, it’s not.”
“In that case . . .” J. Z. retrieved a plastic baggie from Mitch’s dining table and removed one of the dozen or so hand-rolled joints that were tucked inside. “Care to partake?”
“No, thanks, but you go right ahead,” said Mitch, who had to admire the strict line that J. Z. drew between work and play.
There were matches on the old glass-topped rowboat that was Mitch’s coffee table. J. Z. flopped down in the easy chair and fired up the joint, toking on it deeply. “Are you into her? Because I can totally dig that. Kimmy’s shmoking hot. But you’re too late, man. She’s engaged to some computer geek up in Boston. Besides, don’t you have a thing going with our resident state . . . ?” He froze, staring down at the lit joint in his hand. “Uh-oh . . .”
“Don’t worry. I don’t care about that. Actually, I’m the computer geek’s best man. Kenny Lapidus is his name.”
J. Z. observed a moment of silence as he sat there processing this. “Okay . . .”
“And you and Kimberly were married very briefly a few years ago.”
“A million years ago,” he recalled with a fond, faraway look on his face.
Mitch sat down on the love seat across from him. Clemmie moseyed over and jumped in Mitch’s lap, eyeing this stranger guardedly. “I was wondering what happened between you two.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, man, because I’m not a hostile or confrontational person. But why’s it any of your damned business?”
“It’s not,” Mitch acknowledged easily. “And if you don’t want to talk about it I can totally respect that. But I’ve looked out for Kenny since we were little kids, okay? I just want to make sure he’s not getting into something he doesn’t understand.”
J. Z. treated Mitch to his one-eyed squint again. “No problem, man. Happy to help a brother.” He took another pull on the joint, holding in the smoke for several seconds before he let it out. “Were you ever young and stupid?”
“I like to think I still am.”
J. Z. flashed a lopsided grin at him. “Good answer. But were you ever young and stupid in a place like Dorset?”
“I grew up in New York City.”
“Totally different universe. I spent a lot of good years in the City myself, but I ended up back here. And, trust me, it can really suck. A young guy’s going to do his wild thing, you know? Trouble is, when you do it here in Dorset everyone finds out. You get trashed one ni
ght and wrap your car around somebody’s sycamore tree? Bam—word’s out that you’re a messed-up druggie. You boink a girl and never call her again? Bam—you’re a no-good louse. And here’s the thing, here’s the thing: No one ever forgets. Twenty years can go by and the old prune-faced biddies will still be talking about you. Know why? Because every babe you ever hook up with was, is and always will be somebody’s sister or cousin. Or her uncle works for somebody who knows your mom. Or whatever. It sticks to you like glue for as long as you live. Even if it wasn’t even your fault. I mean, sometimes it’s her fault, right? Or nobody’s fault. But, wait, because here’s the real pisser. Are you listening . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“The truth doesn’t matter,” J. Z. proclaimed. “Hell, people don’t even know the truth half of the time. Doesn’t stop them though. They make up their mind anyway. And talk about you just like you’re a character in some soap opera. You have any idea what that’s like?”
“Yes, I do, actually.”
“Yeah, maybe you do. The old prune-faced biddies talk about you and the trooper lady, right? Well, me they’ve been talking about forever. Here, I’ll give you a for instance. This guy Courtney Borio gave me a helping hand a long, long time ago when I was really down. Courtney was just a good guy, okay? He taught me a trade. Gave me a place in this world. What he did for me, I mean, this guy should be a local hero, right? Wrong. You want to know why? Because Courtney was gay. And so they all whispered about the real reason why he was being so nice to me. I don’t roll that way, Mitch. Never have. I’m not judging. It’s just not my thing, okay? But Courtney and me worked together for a long time—which, according to the old prune-faced biddies, meant that I had to be gay. Doesn’t matter how many live-in girlfriends I’ve had over the years. To them I’m gay and always will be. Like I said, they never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And they’re just plain nasty, man. I mean, just because a man’s gay he can’t have a friend who’s not? How bigoted is that?” J. Z. glanced out of Mitch’s bay window in the direction of Bitsy Peck’s house. “I’m always happy to work for Bitsy. She’s a cool lady, not like those old prune-faced biddies in the Historic District—my mom’s so-called friends. They’ve never cut me any slack. Let me tell you, man, they’re just lucky I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’d make ’em pay for what they’ve put me through.”
Mitch found himself leaning forward. “Make them pay how?”
J. Z. didn’t answer him. His joint had gone out. He lit a match to it and got it going again, dragging on it deeply.
“J. Z., why did you move back here from New York? Why do you still live here? Feeling the way you do, I mean.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Where else would I go? This is my home. Besides, I’m working. Got a roof over my head. It’s not much—just my mom’s guesthouse. But it’s mine. And I have a steady honey, Maggie. Real sweetie. The old prune-faced biddies talk nothing but trash about her, of course, because she slings drinks over at the Monkey Farm Café. She’s not classy like them.”
“Maggie works evenings?”
“Every weekend. Thursdays, too, if they get busy.”
“What do you with yourself while she’s working?”
He flashed a lopsided grin at Mitch. “We’re doing it, man.”
“These old biddies you were talking about . . .”
“Old prune-faced biddies.”
“What do they have to say about you and Kimberly?”
“That the poor girl didn’t know what she was getting into—about me being gay and all. And that when she found out the horrible truth, she dumped me.”
“Which isn’t what happened.”
“Not even close, man”
“What did?”
J. Z. took a long swallow of his beer before he said, “I used to smoke a lot of dope in those days. Not like now. I was stoned all the time. I’m not trying to make excuses, okay? Just drawing you a picture. We’d been married a few weeks and it was going great. I was only, like, the second guy Kimmy had ever been with. She was just real enthusiastic and eager to please me. So one night she asks me if there’s anything I’d like to do that we haven’t done yet.” J. Z. paused to ponder this, his brow furrowing. “Who knows what she really meant by that. I took it at face value and told her I’d always wanted to get into a threesome. She said ‘Really, who with?’ And so I mentioned this tasty friend of hers from high school. Cute little slice named Brittany. In fact, Brittany and me had kind of hooked up a couple of times before I met Kimmy. Anyway, that wasn’t what Kimberly wanted to hear. And she completely freaked out. Started sobbing. Kimmy’s incredibly sensitive. She feels everything. But, wait, because here comes the truly weird part: She said yes. Was all about wanting to make me happy. And so we ended up in a threesome with Brittany. Man, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Couldn’t believe it was really happening. Not that it happened a lot. Just twice. But, my bad, I managed to mess it up.”
“Mess it up how?”
“Me and Brittany kind of picked up where we’d left off before. I mean, since we were cool as a threesome I figured Kimmy wouldn’t mind, you know?”
“And she did?”
“She totally did. Came home one day, found us in bed together and just completely lost it. I said to her, ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ And she said, ‘Really? Because it looks like you’re screwing my best friend.’ Kimmy couldn’t handle it, man. Told me I had no soul. That I was dead inside. Next thing I knew she’d moved back in with her folks and we were toast.”
“What about Brittany?”
“She split town. Ended up married to some businessman down in Austin. Has a bunch of kids.” He finished off the last of his beer. “That’s the real story, man. From the source. Naturally, the old prune-faced biddies vastly prefer their own version, which is that Kimmy came home and found me in bed with a guy. It fits together better with all of the lies they’ve been telling about Courtney and me for so many years. To this day they will swear to you that Kimmy dumped me because I’m queer. Let me tell you something, man. I have to make an honest living in this place. So I work for them. I take their money. But some day those old prune-faced biddies will get what’s coming to them. The bad you do comes back to you.” J. Z. ran a hand over his weathered face. “Who said that?”
“You did,” Mitch replied. “Just now.”
“No, like isn’t that a line from a chick song? Natalie Merchant, maybe? God, I hate her.”
“How are things between you and Kimberly now? Do you speak?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t jibe with her whole Zenny self-image to snub me. Bad karma. We’re cool. Well, not cool, but civil.” J. Z. gazed out of the bay window again, only this time his eyes widened with alarm. “Whoa, it’s getting dark,” he gasped. “I have to clear out right now.” He grabbed his baggie of dope and jumped to his feet. “Is it okay if I wear your clothes home? I’ll drop ’em off next time I’m out this way.”
“No problem,” Mitch assured him. “But what’s your hurry?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Why not?”
“Bad things happen,” he whispered, gulping with genuine fright. Or at least it seemed genuine. The man was quaking with terror.
“What kind of bad things?”
J. Z. Cliffe didn’t answer him. He’d already gone barreling out the front door, leaving it open wide behind him. Mitch got up and closed it, then reached for his cell phone to call Des.
CHAPTER 8
That night, Des left her cruiser in front of the firehouse and patrolled the Historic District on foot. Oly and two other troopers were prowling the District in their rides.
The night air was warm and sultry. If there was a moon up there she couldn’t see it. She strolled her way along the rows of exquisitely preserved colonial mansions, her big leather belt and holster creaking, eyes and ears open. She could hear the sound of TV sets coming
from open windows. Someone somewhere was playing an unsteady version of “Stardust” on a piano. She saw a few folks out walking their dogs. And a pair of giggly young girls running down the street for home in their bathing suits, dripping wet from somebody’s swimming pool. But hardly any cars drove by. This was not unusual. The real action in Dorset on Saturday night wasn’t in the Historic District. The bars and clubs were down near the marina.
It was nearly nine o’clock when she came to a halt out in front of the Captain Chadwick House. Only one room was lit up at the Farrells’ place. Dex and Maddee were watching television or reading, she figured. In contrast, there were lights on all over Beth Breslauer’s condo. As Des started across the lawn toward the backyard she could see Beth through her kitchen window. Mitch’s first love was doing the dishes. Kenny and Kimberly were with her, the three of them chatting merrily, laughing. Already one little happy family. Upstairs, Bertha Peck’s unit was dark. She’d gone out apparently. Her garage door was down. All of them were down except for Augie’s. The man’s vintage, red GTO sat there, gleaming under his garage’s overhead light. There were lights on in his apartment upstairs, too. Music was playing. An old Neil Diamond record. She settled in among the arborvitae bushes that edged the property and crouched there, waiting for him to make his move.
Twenty minutes had gone by when she felt her cell phone vibrate. She glanced at the screen and took the call, keeping her voice down.
“I’ve got a hot prospect for you, girlfriend. I am talking sizzling.”
“Mitch, I thought you weren’t going to do this again,” she whispered.
“Do what?” he asked innocently.
“Go Nancy Drew on me.”
“I’d rather be classified as one of the Hardy Boys, if you don’t mind. Either Frank or Joe will do. I’m not picky. And you’re right, I was. But this kind of fell into my boxer shorts.”
“Into your what?”
“Des, I can barely hear you. Why are you whispering?”
“Mitch, what do you want?”
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